


Fool's Gold

by Schadenfreudah



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schadenfreudah/pseuds/Schadenfreudah
Summary: It would be foolish, for Ryou to place unconditional faith in the spirit of the Millennium Ring.
Relationships: Bakura Ryou/Yami Bakura
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68
Collections: Tendershipping Week 2020





	1. Ring

It’s a dry night in July when his papa, tanned from long days in the sun, his long, white hair pulled into a tie at the back of his head, comes home.

He’s expected, of course—Ryou’s mom had put them to work preparing the house for his arrival all day, with Ryou scrubbing the floors and Amane wiping down the windows, though she’s made more of a mess than she’s really helped. _The house needs to be perfect_ , she’d explained softly; _papa is tired from so many months abroad, away from his family and everything here. He needs rest._

But still, there’s something surprising about seeing his silhouette in the doorway, the tired slope of his shoulders and the wrinkle lines creasing his face. He seems older—or maybe it’s Ryou who’s grown.

He’s nearly ten now, after all. And it’s his job to be the man of the house most of the time, now that his papa’s expedition has kicked off.

“Ryou,” his papa greets, his voice hoarse, tired; he opens his arms, inviting Ryou into a hug. “My boy. It’s been too long…”

Obediently, Ryou slips out of the chair and scarpers towards his papa, letting himself be enveloped in a tight embrace. It’s stifling—the scent of his papa’s thick cologne nearly chokes him, the artificial freshness seeping into his nose and throat, and it’s too hot.

When he finally lets go, Ryou’s papa takes a step back, giving him an appraising look.

“You’re taller,” he remarks, his voice thick with pride. “And I don’t think I remember seeing that shirt on you before—did mom get you that?”

She hadn’t.

The shirt is at least a year old; it had been a birthday present from a visiting cousin, picked up from a souvenir shop near their town’s shrine. But Ryou doesn’t bother to correct him; instead, he only nods, a placid smile taking shape on his face.

There’s an awkward pause. Ryou’s papa stares at him as if he has something to say—his breath hitches audibly, his lips screwing up, before he clears his throat.

“Where’s mom, kiddo?” he asks, peering past Ryou into the darkened hallway trailing off from the living room. “I thought she’d be here to welcome me home. Amane was telling me all about your big plans on the phone last night—unless there’s some sort of surprise party waiting for me.” He lets out a chuckle. “I think I’m rather too old for that sort of thing.”

Ryou doesn’t laugh at the halfhearted joke.

“She went to the store,” he replies, trying to imbue his voice with a sort of manly authority. “To buy sparklers…’cause you missed the festival.”

Ryou’s papa raises a brow. “Oh?” he says. “I see. I guess Amane wanted the whole family to be there, huh…”

His papa mumbles something under his breath, but Ryou isn’t listening anymore; his distracted eyes drift to the clock on the wall, brows screwing up in concentration as he tries to decipher the time.

“It’s been an hour already,” he announces, though he doesn’t really know, cutting off his papa’s indistinct muttering. “So—so they should be back soon.”

His papa is taken aback by his interruption, before he looks down at his watch, frowning. “That’s strange,” he says. “I told your mom I’d be back by eight, and it’s already eight thirty. What time did they leave?”

Ryou’s brows knit on his forehead. “I don’t know,” he answers, a slight panic rising in his gut. “Um, maybe…seven?”

Shaking his head, his papa sighs. “You got distracted by that game again, huh,” he says wearily, looking past Ryou to the living room table where his figures are set out in their battle poses. “Mom and I have talked to you about this. You need to pay more attention to your surroundings, Ryou. Don’t you think you’re a little too old to be acting like this?”

Ryou’s cheeks burn with embarrassment, his stomach churning in a ball of heat and nausea. Shame washes over him in waves; his fingers ache with the depth of it, clattering together. Though he tries to push it down, he can’t help the trembling of his lower lip, or the tears that wobble on the edge of his eyelids.

His papa stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Come on, don’t cry,” he says, conciliatory, his broad shoulders sloping inwards. He looks exhausted. “I just got home—”

Before he can finish, the phone rings. It jolts Ryou out of his stupor; he wipes the tears off with the back of his hand, sniffling slightly to keep any more from slipping down his hot face.

After a moment he moves to answer it, but his papa shakes his head, waving Ryou off.

“I got it,” he says, striding towards where the phone is mounted on the wall. “It’s probably just the office. I told them I’d swing by.” He picks it up, raising the receiver to his ear. “Hello, Bakura speaking. Sorry about the wait—I just got back, so it’s a little hectic here…”

Ryou watches. His lashes are still wet with tears—they drip down his cheeks, slipping over the flushed skin to his parted lips. Unconsciously, his tongue sweeps across his dry skin, his mouth pursing when he parses their unpleasant salty flavor.

His papa nods, listening to the voice on the other end of the line, and then he pales, his whole body crumbling before Ryou’s eyes. His hands tremble as they cling on to the bright yellow plastic, his suddenly sallow, wrinkled face sagging deeper with every passing second. He has to lean on the wall for support; he looks like an old man, suddenly, as if he’d aged decades in a single moment.

“Can we—are they taking visitors?” he breathes out, his voice so quiet Ryou can barely hear it.

There’s a pause.

“Okay,” his papa says, swallowing. “Okay. I’ll—me and my son are coming, so…”

He pauses again, the faint crackle of the voice on the other end of the line filling in the silence.

“Okay,” his papa repeats, for the third time, barely audible. “Thank you for calling. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Slowly, he pulls the phone from his ear. His face is ashen as he sets it back in its cradle, letting his arm drop to his side as if he can’t support its weight anymore.

From outside, Ryou can hear grasshoppers and the soft hum of the wind. The sounds of nature calm him; his tears are dry now, his heart relaxed.

His papa hasn’t said a word, yet—he’s staring at the wall, in complete silence.

“Papa…?” Ryou ventures, finally. “Who was that?”

At the sound of Ryou’s voice, his papa looks up. “There’s been an accident,” he says after a long moment, his eyes glazed over. “We need to go.”

* * *

Ryou doesn’t cry at the funeral.

Everyone expects him to—he can hear the sympathetic murmurs cast in his direction, feel the stares boring into his back, under the thick fabric of the uncomfortable suit his papa had told him to wear.

He thinks he probably should, too. Amane would have, if it were him in her place. Ryou can easily picture her pinched, red face, her fists still plump with baby fat rubbing at her swollen eyes. Mom would clutch her against her hip, rocking her gently, murmuring consoling words in her ears.

Out of the corner of her eye, she’d wink at Ryou. _You were like that, too, when you were her age,_ she would whisper, lifting a finger to her lips. _She can’t help it._

Unbidden, his eyes drift to the twin coffins at the front of the room. One of them is small, so small it doesn’t even seem like it belongs to a person.

 _They’re in there_ , he realizes, faintly.

The last time he’d seen Amane, she had looked so tiny—her frail, white body, mottled with bruises, hooked up to a big machine, which beeped out a steady pulse for a while until it didn’t. Her eyelids hadn’t so much as twitched, her chest completely still. Usually, when she sleeps, she puffs out soft breaths, as if she’s snoring. But she had been completely unmoving, rigid, like a doll.

He hadn’t been allowed to see his mom, but his father had gone in. After a few seconds, he’d stumbled out of her hospital room and vomited all over his shoes.

Ryou swallows.

When it’s nearly over, his papa gives a speech. He doesn’t listen; he’d heard his papa practicing at home, pacing up and down the hallways, scratching at his overgrown stubble. He’d been trying to memorize it, like one of his talks for the museum. The thought makes Ryou feel sick.

Instead, Ryou peers down at his nails. They’re too long; he hates cutting them, always has. Mom always has to do it for him, holding his hand in her lap as she clips away the sharp points, her fingers brushing over his pulse point.

It’s been two weeks, and his papa hasn’t yet noticed how much they’ve grown.

The seat beside him drags against the floor, and Ryou’s eyes dart to the side. papa is sitting down again, his back hunched over, his body unmoving. There are little dark splotches on his pants— _he’s crying_ , Ryou realizes.

The man presiding over the ceremony begins to talk again, giving his closing remarks. His voice is grating; the soft, whispery tone of it makes him want to scream.

Mom would’ve hated this—she would’ve hated the stiff, black suit Ryou’s wearing, the pitchy organ music wafting throughout the church, the slope of papa’s shoulders. Amane would’ve hated it even more.

Despite the lump in his throat, Ryou still doesn’t cry. He stares resolutely down at his shoes until the service is over and everyone else has gone.

* * *

It’s three months later that his papa tells him the news.

Ryou is sitting at the dining room table, scribbling down the answers to his science homework. He’s in the middle of making a new figure—he’s made the bottom out of clay already, and now he’s going to paint the armor he’d designed a few nights before. He really doesn’t care about the food web, but papa’s rules dictate homework before anything else, so he’s trying to finish it as quickly as he can.

His papa announces his presence with a soft knock on the door.

Startled, Ryou looks up, his pencil slipping out from between his fingers. It’s early—far earlier than usual. Usually, he doesn’t arrive until at least dinner time. It’s been even later recently.

“Hey,” his papa says, managing a slight smile. “Can we talk for a minute?”

Ryou blinks, and nods, setting his paper aside.

His papa pulls out a chair beside him, and leans forward on his elbows. “The museum made me a very special offer today,” he begins, slowly. “They’ve given me the chance to go to Egypt to research an important artifact—one that we’ve been tracking down for years.” He pauses. “You understand, Ryou, how big of a deal this is for me. For my career.”

Ryou nods again.

“Good,” his papa says, as if reassuring himself. “I’m glad…”

There’s a long, awkward silence. Ryou pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his skinny arms around them, his bare heels digging into the wood of the chair.

Then, his papa lets out a breath. “You would need to come with me, if I took it,” he explains. “I asked around the family, but…no one can afford to take in another child, not to mention the question of transferring schools.”

Eyes widening, Ryou’s arms go slack.

He knows about his papa’s work, of course—he’s read about it, and his mom used to explain it to him all the time when he was younger. Then, Egypt had only been an idea, a place that existed in books and his head.

_Egypt…_

He doesn’t know why, but the thought of it—of being there, in that place—draws him in.

“We can go,” he blurts out, before his papa can continue—before he even realizes what words are spilling from his mouth. “If you need to, for the museum…”

His papa is taken aback; he gives Ryou an impressed look, his lip curving up in a shadow of a genuine smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d be up for it,” he says. “It’s a long way away, after all. And you’d have to leave all your friends behind.”

In truth, Ryou doesn’t really _have_ any friends to leave behind. There’s nothing keeping him here—except maybe the diorama he’s trying to build. His papa wouldn’t know that; he hasn’t stepped foot in the school for years.

Ryou shakes his head. “I want to,” he insists. “And—and so do you, right? So… so we can go, right?”

His papa leans forward to ruffle Ryou’s hair. The gesture is awkward, unpracticed—yet it sends a pulse of happiness to his gut, and Ryou smiles, his legs swinging under the table.

“We can go,” his papa confirms, pulling back to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’ll have to talk to your teachers about it, but I’m sure something can be arranged.” He pauses for a moment, and then adds, “I’m proud of you, kid. You’re really growing up.”

Ryou only nods, his mind in the desert already, barely grounded.

* * *

The journey is long and tiring.

Ryou spends most of his time in Egypt holed up in the hotel room, scribbling down new ideas and taking pictures with papa’s researchers’ cameras. They all like him, more or less—they entertain him when papa’s away, take him down to the street markets and let him take in the unfamiliar sights and sounds.

Well, they don’t _really_ like him. Ryou’s not naive enough to think they spend time with him because they care. Papa is paying them to do this. In fact, he’s sure they resent him. But as long as they tolerate him, Ryou doesn’t mind—it’s enough to be led down onto the dusty streets and get to explore, to taste the dry fruits and observe the ancient structures from afar.

Other than that, he doesn’t care how they feel. He really doesn’t.

It’s been like this for the past month: papa and his team go off to do research, and the remaining employees stay behind to watch Ryou.

Except for today—because, today, Ryou’s papa has a special project. It’s the final one; after this, he’d explained late at night, they’re going back to the museum. Back to their town. Back _home._

Ryou doesn’t want to go back home. He can’t—not yet, when he hasn’t seen what he’d come for. When he still doesn’t understand the tug in his blood that had compelled him to say yes to his papa’s request.

So he’d slipped out from under his babysitters’ noses in the early morning, wearing his favorite outfit—an _explorer’s_ outfit—and trailed behind his father’s imposing back, his eyes trained on the methodical back and forth of his tied-back hair.

In the boat, he hides behind one of the large, wooden crates. Ryou’s shivering; the cold air rising from the lake’s choppy waves oozes up into the small crawlspace, slipping under his thin clothes and lighting his skin into gooseflesh.

It’s true, what he had read—the Valley of Kings is a dead place.

Another shiver wracks Ryou’s small frame, but this time it isn’t because of the cold.

This time, he’s excited _._

* * *

Everything goes wrong after that.

Ryou darts out from behind the column, frantic, and scrambles towards where his papa is splayed out on the floor.

“Papa!” he yelps, panicked, and drops onto his knees beside his crumpled body.

He reaches out to grasp onto him—any part of him, his shirt, his shaking hands, his long spools of hair—with tentative hands. A pool of sticky red fluid drips from the back of his papa’s head. Taking in a long, shuddering breath, Ryou breathes in the stench of the blood, a wave of nausea rising up in his throat.

His papa’s eyes are still alight with that strange, unnatural gleam. It was almost as if he’d been possessed, as he’d reached out to shove the money at the strange man. Like he’d been someone else.

Letting out a rattling cough, his papa manages to sit up on his elbows for a moment. His chest rises with shallow breaths, but, voice hoarse, he manages to breathe out, “The Ring… Go get the Ring, Ryou…”

Swallowing, Ryou’s eyes dart over to where the golden pronged thing lies on the ground. He’d seen what it had done to his papa—it’s a violent, malevolent creature. But looking back down at the heat of his papa’s fanatic gaze, the sick nausea convulsing in the pit of his stomach implores him to obey.

“Okay,” he whispers, nodding even as his voice trembles, and rises to his feet. “I see it… I’m getting it for you, okay, papa? So—so don’t give up…”

Without another moment’s hesitation, he takes off, scrambling towards it on unsteady, wobbly legs. He needs to get to it quickly; needs to bring it back to papa, so he can see it, so he’ll keep holding on.

Up close, it hardly looks capable of hurting anyone. If Ryou just reaches out to touch it, it’ll be so easy. Crouching down, he sees the hazy silhouette of his own reflection in the mottled gold.

The spokes tremble under the heat of his gaze, twitching up towards him. Ryou’s breath hitches. It’s reaching out for him, like it wants to drag across the hollow of his throat. It looks so pathetic like this, in its desperate yearning for the touch of skin.

Unconsciously, he’s reached out in return. His hands are already hovering over the metal. It’s radiating heat, the gold pulsing like it’s made of flesh, imitating the thump of a racing heart.

Something about it seems so lonely—its hot pulse, the frantic stretch of its metallic limbs, so eager simply to be touched. In some ways, that reminds Ryou of himself.

The turban-clad man’s eyes widen when he realizes what Ryou’s about to do, and he shouts, “Stop it, don’t—!”

It’s already too late.

Ryou’s fingers curl around the metal.

It’s searing; the heat of it rips through his hands immediately, sinking deep into the bone. He can’t help but scream. The noise is torn from his throat, guttural, as the fire rockets through his body, coursing down his veins and setting his insides alight with the force of it.

A rush of darkness emerges from its center, enveloping Ryou’s body in its harsh cradle—his shirt rips open with the force of it, his thin legs buckling beneath him, forced to hold him up by the sheer force of the wind.

There’s a quiet sort of muttering humming in his head; it’s a laugh, maybe, or a whisper. He can’t tell, when it’s so indistinct.

Ryou holds on. The reflexive grip of his small hands clings to the golden ridge, his fingers incapable of unfurling. His eyes squeeze shut—the pain is manageable, if it means his papa will survive.

He must persevere—he must persevere—he _must_ persevere—

Even if Ryou dies, it’s worth it, isn’t it?

For a moment, he feels like he’s about to—his ears are ringing, drowning in the echo of a thousand screams, his field of vision dripping with blood. Faint echoes of silver slice through his mind, and then there’s a flash of gold; a flood of gurgling, convulsing liquid, oozes across the floor, consuming the cave and Ryou and papa and he’s drowning and—

As if it had never happened at all, it stops, suddenly.

The fire cools; his tense, burning body loosens, the tear of his muscles easing into a slightly unpleasant ache. The voice is still there; its breath feels warm against the rim of his ear. Ryou still can’t hear what it’s saying—it sounds like it’s making fun of him, but why, he doesn’t know.

He can’t see anything anymore. The floor beneath him feels cool, but his face is resting on something soft, and warm. It reminds him of one of his mom’s aprons; if he tries, he can smell her comforting floral perfume on it.

Ryou knows he should open his eyes. Indistinctly, he can hear screaming behind him, the skitter of footsteps across the ground and a mocking, high pitched voice emanating from nearby. But he’s so tired—even the thought of trying to figure out what happened makes his head woozy, as if someone had stuffed wads of cotton through his ears and plugged his brain up with it.

And anyways, it doesn’t really matter, does it?

He’s still alive.

* * *

When Ryou wakes up, he’s back in his papa’s hotel room.

His head aches. Wincing, he rubs at his temples, shifting himself so he’s resting against the wall behind his bed.

It’s nighttime. As he looks through the window overseeing the town below, all he can see is the velvet haze of night, offset by a few dim streetlights and the faint glow of stars and satellites from above.

Ryou doesn’t know how he got here, or why. He remembers going on the ship—he remembers peering up at his papa as he steered, hidden behind one of the large cartons, his stomach churning as the boat struggled its way across the black, choppy river.

Swiping the back of his hand over his eyes, he’s about to try to stand when he notices the slight weight bearing down on his neck, the touch of hot metal pressing up against his bare skin. It’s subtle; he’d been so out of it at first that he hadn’t even noticed it was there, as if his body had naturally accepted it as a natural extension of itself.

Ryou blinks. One hand fishing beneath his shirt, he pulls the object out by its cordons, his fingers wrapping around its metallic rim once it’s in plain view. It’s a ring—not the kind his mom used to wear on her finger, but a big one, with sharp prongs drooping from around its length.

Immediately, he winces, a searing pain shooting through his head. It’s so _familiar_ —he’s seen it before, he knows. The memory is right there under the surface, just waiting for him to tug at it.

His eyes slide shut, and he thinks back—he’s slipping off the ship in his mind, trailing after his papa, then taking his place behind a column…There’s an unfamiliar man, with strange, gold markings on his face, and a gaggle of gawking children…And then—

The Ring heats up against his skin, the sudden burn of it jerking Ryou out of his recollection, forcing him to drop it. The prongs are taut—they’re shaking, pointing to Ryou, as if they’re accusing him of something.

 _Back off_ , it hisses at him, without words. _Don’t touch it._

Ryou gapes at the now calm piece of metal, all thoughts of the past now the farthest thing from his mind.

The Ring—it’s responding to Ryou like it can _hear_ him, like it’s aware of what he’s thinking.

“But that’s impossible,” he finishes aloud, peering down at it wondrously, his eyes wide with curiosity. “How…?”

At that, the Ring heats up again. It’s a nice warmth, heating up his cold skin, not quite hot enough to burn but just enough to tickle his chest playfully.

Ryou lets out a giggle of surprise, and reaches a finger out towards the Ring, laughing even harder when one of its prongs stretches out to meet him.

“You really are listening,” he breathes out as the tip of his finger brushes against the sharp point of the spike. “That’s amazing…As expected of an ancient artifact, huh…”

The Ring doesn’t reply to that, but somehow Ryou can sense its pleasure in response to the compliment. It’s a cocky sort of pleasure; it hovers above his ribcage, coaxing another short laugh from his belly, before it dissolves.

“You can’t talk though, huh,” remarks Ryou after another second of silence. “You have to show me, instead. Is that right?”

The Ring sends out a pulse of heat instantly, in confirmation.

Ryou’s teeth dig into his plump lower lip.

“I see…” he replies, softly, his good spirits dampened somewhat. “So I can talk to you, but you can’t say anything back.”

He chews on the tender skin, contemplative. It’s awkward, isn’t it? Talking to someone when they can’t reply—isn’t that painful? It’s not as if Ryou has anything particularly interesting to say.

“Would you prefer if I didn’t?”

There’s an ominous churning in the metal, a moment of nothing, before it _burns_ , scalding Ryou’s chest. He lets out a painted yelp, stumbling back over his feet and crashing back down onto the bed, the impact buffered by the soft comforter still in place.

It’s quivering again, the spokes taut, the metal aching against his flesh. It _hurts,_ but Ryou’s agony is less his own than it is an echo of something else. Of _someone_ else.

Ryou sucks in a breath, his heart racing, unsure whether it’s of his own body’s doing or if it’s the Ring.

“Okay,” he manages, after a beat, stroking the rim of the metal hesitantly. It’s still shaking—Ryou doesn’t know how to calm it down, but he tries anyway, as if he’s approaching a feral cat. Somehow, it works—the prongs droop, as if they’re letting out a breath. “I won’t stop, okay?”

His pinky finger curls around one of the spokes at the end, as if it’s a hand.

Then, Ryou whispers, “I promise.”

* * *

His papa is in the hospital.

That’s what he finds out when he finally makes it out of the room, having gotten himself redressed in his pajamas, chattering to the Ring the whole time.

The researchers are crowded around in the communal meeting room, ten pairs of eyes dragging up to him the second Ryou lets the door close behind him with a soft click. They look haggard—most of them are hunched over their computers, their eyes shadowed.

“Ryou-chan,” one of them—Izumi, he recognizes—finally mumbles, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “You’re awake.”

Ryou nods awkwardly, resisting the urge to squeeze the Ring.

“We were worried, when you went missing like that,” another researcher who he doesn’t know says, laying a hand on his colleague’s arm. “And then when you guys came back looking so bad…With your father in that kind of state, it’s not like we could ask him, either. You really gave us a fright, Ryou-kun.”

Head lifting, Ryou asks softly, his nails digging into his palms, “Papa is…?”

Izumi falters. “In the hospital,” she finally admits. “Don’t worry, the doctors say it’s just sleep deprivation and stress, as well as a minor head wound. He’ll be fine in a few days.” She swallows. “Whatever happened to you guys—it was bad, right? I mean, I can’t see how Bakura-san could’ve steered the boat. So…how…?”

Kawakami nods. “We thought you might be able to tell us, since your father’s still unconscious.”

Ryou’s eyes squeeze shut, and he tries to think back, but the searing pain of the Ring licks at his mind; it’s blocking him like before, he recognizes, preventing him from unlocking the door behind which he knows the memories are waiting. Ryou can almost envision himself jiggling the knob to no avail.

“I can’t,” he confesses, frustrated, shifting his weight between his feet. “I can’t remember, I mean, I can, sort of, but it’s all fuzzy. I went after papa, and then…”

He trails off, unable to articulate what had happened next.

_Ring…why…?_

Another one of the researchers, Kawakami, scrubs a hand over his face when it’s clear Ryou isn’t going to continue. “Shit,” he hisses. “All this, and we couldn’t even get the Ring…”

Ryou blinks, surprised. _But you have gotten the Ring_ , he considers saying. _I have it. It’s right here_.

He knows he’s obligated to tell them—tracking it down had been the sole purpose of their expedition. And besides, he’ll have to show papa eventually, if he plans on wearing it every day like both he and the Ring seem to want.

The Ring trembles beneath his shirt, nervously, its spokes digging into his skin and clinging to him with all its might. It’s terrified, he can tell; it’s obvious the way it’s holding onto Ryou, like a wild animal, incapable of letting go for fear of being known.

Its pain is Ryou’s pain; unconsciously, his hand drifts to his chest, rubbing the raised rim of the Ring to soothe it.

Ryou had made a promise, hadn’t he? He’d told the Ring he wouldn’t leave it alone, right?

After that, the decision is obvious.

“It really is a shame,” he replies, guilt simmering in his stomach as he flashes the group a wobbly smile. “Papa will be disappointed.”


	2. Chains

It’s Ryou’s first day of third grade.

He’s sitting at his desk, squirming in his uniform, peering at the rest of his classmates from under his lashes. Most of them are clustered in groups around each other’s desks, but there are some—like Ryou—who are quieter, observing rather than participating themselves.

That comes as a relief; he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, not at all. He hates it when the teachers talk to him in that cloying voice, full of pity—he hates the weight of their hands on his shoulders as they tell him _take your time, Bakura-kun, we understand your situation._

It’s a new year, now. He’s done with that.

Lips curled into a slight smile, Ryou shifts in his seat again, trying to get comfortable in his desk. The uniform is short sleeved, thankfully, but the pants are still awkwardly stiff from never having been worn. He’d tried his best to iron it; the Ring had been laughing at him the whole time, the injustice of which had made him lose his focus and press his pinky finger to the hot metal. In response to his choked yelp, the Ring had only laughed harder, which had made Ryou pout in righteous indignation until he’d burst into a fit of giggles, too, despite the throbbing ache of the burn.

At the thought, his hand rises unconsciously to stroke the Ring under his shirt. He’s not supposed to show it to anyone, especially not at school. Even his papa hates the sight of it—when Ryou had first tried to show it to him, all the color had seeped from his face, and he’d let out a strangled, almost choking sigh.

Strangely, he hadn’t seemed all that surprised; it was almost as if he’d always known Ryou had been wearing it, but had hoped he wouldn’t have to worry about it. All he’d managed to say in response had been a feeble: “Put that thing away, Ryou.” Afterwards, he’d shut himself in the study with a stinking bottle.

 _Whiskey,_ the Ring had whispered in his ear. _Silly old man._

The Ring hates papa. It’s obvious; its disdain churns in Ryou’s throat, the distrustful heat of it simmering uncomfortably beneath his pajamas at the breakfast table when papa tries to make conversation. It scoffs at his pathetic attempts to speak to him, and its anger makes Ryou angry, causes his hands to curl into his fists in his lap through the mindless platitudes, even though his father hasn’t really said anything wrong.

See? His _father_. Ryou’s only ever called him papa.

“This is all your fault,” he mumbles under his breath, squeezing the Ring. The gesture isn’t mean-spirited, despite everything. He knows the Ring only means well.

The Ring heats up under his grip, as if to say, _Yes, I know._

Before Ryou can engage the Ring in further conversation, a shrill ringing cuts through the chatter of the room, and his classmates quickly scatter, scarpering back to their seats. Their homeroom teacher assumes her position at the front of the class, clutching the paper with all their names on it in her thick, veiny hands, her glasses slipping down her nose as she offers them a smile.

Ms. Kusakabe is nice, truthfully. But the way her eyes linger on Ryou makes his cheeks heat and sends him slouching in his place. He avoids the questioning glances the kids next to him shoot his way when she stumbles over her introductory message, surprised by his deflection. They don’t expect him to act like this, he knows—they want him to smile, to nod, to preen under their attention.

Usually, he tries to live up to their expectations. Today, he doesn’t want to. The Ring, for once, seems to agree with this decision.

When Ms. Kusakabe wraps up her speech, she moves on to attendance. Ryou tries to listen to what she’s saying—he hears Abe Misato, Arisato Kanji…it won’t be long until his name is called and he can tune the words out again. It’ll be embarrassing if he zones out and misses his turn; just another reason for him to be poor, sad Bakura.

“Bakura Ryou,” she finally says, after what feels like forever.

Ryou stands. “Here,” he says, softly, his hands folded in front of him.

Against his chest, the Ring burns—it’s rattling around, the spokes poking at his soft flesh. It hurts, vaguely; he’s used to the temperature by now, but he hates it when the Ring tries to get his attention like that. Ryou winces, and slouches back into his chair the second the next name is called, ducking his head down to avoid attracting unwanted eyes.

“What was that for?” he whispers, annoyed. “It was just attendance.”

The Ring sends a pulse of equally frustrated sensation through his body. It’s trying to say something, he knows. It just doesn’t have the words to say it with. At that, Ryou’s bitterness thaws. It’s not the Ring’s fault it can’t speak, after all—it tries its best to do what it can, to communicate with him like this. It’s really doing all it can.

Isn’t Ryou the slacker, here? Isn’t he the one who’s failing?

“Sorry,” mumbles Ryou, chastened, a pang of guilt aching in his chest with the realization. “I’m really sorry.”

The Ring, stewing, doesn’t reply.

* * *

As it turns out, Ryou is popular this year

Over the summer vacation, in spite of everything, he’d shot up a few inches. His hair had grown, too—his father hadn’t mentioned cutting it, and Ryou hadn’t wanted to either, so it’s down to his chest now. The girls in his class like it; they arrange it into neat braids during lunch break, their small, thin fingers tangling through the knots and tugging at it just hard enough for Ryou to bite his lip.

The Ring especially doesn’t like the girls.

But they like Ryou. They _really_ like Ryou, more than any other boy in the class. He gets invited to playdates after school; he walks home with Aiko, and Makoto, and Ichiko, and Tsubomi; he gets offered candies for lunch. Like anyone would, he graciously accepts, even through the burning of the steaming metal on his chest.

He doesn’t think they’re interested in playing games, but he asks them to hang out anyway and join the latest campaign he’s been planning. It’s much more fun with more than one person. His mom used to play with him, and Amane always tried, but his father— _papa_ , he reminds himself, guiltily—doesn’t have time, so now he organizes them for himself. Having people to join him would be fun; he tells the Ring this, when it tries to protest, and says it with such finality that despite its obvious displeasure, it doesn’t prevent him from extending the invitation.

Because of that, it comes as a surprise when they all accept. Tsubomi’s brother Ren comes, too, a fifth grader with a gap tooth and scraped knees, and a smile so contagious Ryou can’t help but grin at him when he knocks at the door, his hand slotted in his younger sister’s.

Ren is a few inches taller than Ryou—he’s eleven, after all, not nine like the rest of them. He plays in the soccer club, and he’s tanned from spending afternoons outside, but he decides to spend his free days playing games instead of hanging out with his fifth-grade friends.

Ryou likes being around him. On the way home from school that first day, their pinkies brush together. It’s only for a moment, an accidental touch of skin to skin, but it makes Ryou’s cheeks hot and his chest light. The Ring, furious, pulls him away; but that only makes the few illicit seconds of contact all the more exciting, sending a wobbly smile across Ryou’s face.

When he looks up from his shoes, Ren is smiling, too.

It’s easy to get into the game, once it starts. Ryou knows he’s good at running them—he’s been doing it since he was five, after all. He makes his voice creepy in the scary bits, and exciting during the traveling, and the figures he’d made especially for them look _amazing._

They agree to another session, once it’s over. Then another. And then they’re a team—Ryou, the four girls, and Ren. It’s a real campaign; a proper one. With each session, the Ring’s fury builds. Ryou can feel it—can feel how angry with him it becomes, how incensed it is when he pretends not to notice it when it reaches out in front of his friends.

But what is Ryou supposed to do? They wouldn’t understand, even if he wanted them to—the Ring’s existence is their secret, one that Ryou holds as close to his chest as he can. It’s a fragile, precious thing.

When he tells the Ring this, curled up in bed after the fourth session, it sends a crude shot of pleasure through his body.

“I’m so happy,” he breathes out after a few more seconds, his lids drooping as he squeezes a soft pillow in his arms. “You know, you were my first real friend.”

It offers what he can only understand as a hum of agreement. It seems placated by this; it’s pleasantly warm, now, the soft heat making Ryou’s body settle into a comfortable position.

“I’m glad I have others now, too, though,” he mumbles, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “So I don’t have to bother you all the time.” He lets out a tired laugh. “We’ll be friends forever…all of us. Don’t you think?”

The Ring goes ice cold.

There’s a silence, then—it stretches out for a few moments, until the blackness of sleep, in its way, overwhelms him.

* * *

The fifth session is when everything changes.

It’s raining outside and it’s a Sunday, so there’s no school, but everyone shows up anyway. It’s a surprise—Ryou doesn’t expect to see them there, when he hears the insistent knocking at the door, the chorus of voices asking papa to let them in. Neither, he quickly realizes, does the Ring.

Still, he ushers them into his room anyways, the soft slide of slippers against the wooden floor beams pleasant under the steady beat of the rain against the windows. His father— _papa_ —is in the study, but he doesn’t care whether Ryou invites anyone over, so he doesn’t bother to let him know.

They sit down in a circle around the kotatsu, the board sitting on the flat table. Their avatars are all pristine—Ryou cleans them daily, so that no matter how many sticky fingers clutch their small bases, they won’t chip or fade over time.

Ren is right beside him. His thigh presses against Ryou’s, the warmth of it bleeding through his trousers straight to his skin. Before the game, he offers him a smile—the crooked, gap-toothed one that makes Ryou’s fingertips tingle.

Ryou grins and, with the soft push of his figure across the board, starts the game.

It’s an eventful session. They're facing their biggest opponent yet, a three-headed dragon with black scales and three drooling mouths full of sharp teeth. He and the Ring had worked on the figure together a few months ago; it’s one of his favorites, among the monsters he’s proudest of in his ever-growing collection.

Ren’s character, a warrior, is leading the pack. He’s moving them through the board slowly, cautiously, wary of the creature he knows awaits at the end of the quest. Only Ryou knows where it is—his grin widens with each step his friends take, his excitement building in his stomach.

_Almost there…_

Tsubomi looks up from the board, and laughs. “Ren, I think you’re getting close,” she warns, tugging at her brother’s sleeve. “Look, see!”

Ryou schools his expression, his mouth flattening into a neutral line. “I have no idea what you could mean,” he says, trying to prevent the laughter bubbling in his stomach from leaking into his tone. “That’s rude, Tsubomi-chan.”

Sticking her tongue out, Tsubomi shoots back, “ _You’re_ rude, mister Dungeon Master.”

Ren rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright,” he says, rubbing his chin in fake contemplation. “Okay. I make my move—I lead the party into the forest, avoiding the mountain path.”

Ren moves his piece forward, his other hand landing on the ground next to his. As he leans closer to the table, Ren’s fingers inch closer to his Ryou’s own until they’re resting atop them, nearly interlaced.

_So warm…_

Ryou flushes a deep red, his pulse skyrocketing. Every inch of his body feels like it’s on fire; he’s sure everyone can see how much he’s blushing even from such minimal contact. Sucking in a breath, he tries to calm down enough to make the announcement that they’ve wandered into the dragon’s lair when the lights above them flicker, enveloping the room in darkness for a split second before they crackle back on.

Ichiko’s nose scrunches. “I guess that’s the rain,” she says, shivering slightly. “Jeez…I didn’t think it would be a storm. Good thing I brought my umbrella.”

Ryou’s eyes drift to the window. It’s raining, but not hard enough that it should be able to cause a power outage. Water drips down the pane, pooling at its base and dripping onto the sill, rolling down to dampen the edges of the carpet below. Outside, the sky is a cloudy, pallid blue.

Something feels distinctly wrong about all this.

There’s a thick heat in the air—a heat that’s familiar in all its strangeness. Against his racing heart, the Ring is so hot it’s smothering. For once, it’s completely still.

Swallowing, Ryou says quietly, “You’ve stepped into...the trap...”

The words slip from his mouth like molasses. Once they’re out, bile rises in his throat with how wrong they feel. There’s a mumbling in his ear, the wet imprint of a long tongue against its shell; then the lights stutter again, winking at them all, before the room is drowned in darkness.

“Shit,” Ren swears, his hand sliding off Ryou’s. “The lights—”

It seems like he’s moving to turn them back on when, suddenly, one of the girls lets out a choked scream. It’s followed by a sick, dull thump, and then there’s no more noise at all, as if everything had been sucked out with a vacuum.

“Guys…?” Ryou tries after a second, his body taut with fear. “Ren?”

He tries to stand—but, for the first time since he’d found it, the prongs of the Ring plunge fully into his chest, forcing him back down to the ground. His skin rips open with the force of it; he whines with pain, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands desperately try to pull at the rim of metal.

It’s so dark, and hot. He feels like he’s suffocating—the air he’s breathing in is moist, sliding down his throat and filling it, clogging his senses.

“ _Stop_ ,” he pleads, coughing, fat tears welling in his eyes. He can feel sticky blood rolling down his chest, oozing from the puncture marks in his skin. “Please, Ring—you’re hurting me…! _Stop!_ ”

There’s a moment of reluctance before the Ring finally obliges, the spokes withdrawing from where they were buried in his chest. It hurts so _bad_ , each of the wounds aching so deep it feels like it’s to the bone.

In spite of the pain, Ryou manages to rise to his feet on shaky, wobbling legs. He staggers to the light switch, his hands dragging across the wall to support him with each faltering step. He flips it off, then on again—under the guidance of his sweaty palms, the light splutters back into existence, illuminating the room.

He turns.

Inexplicably, his gaze is drawn to the open window. Outside, the rain has stopped falling. Stretching across the sky, Ryou can see the faint outline of a rainbow.

Then, his eyes drift down.

* * *

“I need you to tell me what happened one more time, Bakura.”

The policeman’s voice is barely penetrating his bubble.

Ryou’s knees are pressed to his chest, his skinny arms wrapped around them, trying to compress his body into as small a ball as he can. He’s shivering; he can feel his limbs trembling, can sense the gooseflesh erupting on his skin.

“ _Bakura_.”

Looking up, Ryou says bleakly, “I already told you, sir. I don’t know.”

The man sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thick fingers. “Let me get this straight. There were six of you in the room,” he says, exasperated. “Then there’s an unexpected power outage, and all except you fall into comas in some kind of freak accident?” When Ryou doesn’t move to contradict him, he presses on, more insistent, “They’re on _life support_ , kid. Don’t you understand what that means?”

His lips press together as he manages a limp nod. He’s so _tired_ —every bit of energy’s been drained from his body, and now all he wants to do is sleep. The Ring is limp against his chest, devoid of life. Somehow, the wounds are gone.

There’s a long pause. Then, the policeman grabs his radio.

“No luck,” he grumbles, glaring down at him. Ryou wishes he were invisible. “…Yeah. The kid won’t say anything—keeps mentioning some kind of accident, but…” He stops, listening to the buzz on the other end. “Hah? A _gas leak_?”

Ryou’s trembling hands squeeze his knees tighter.

There’s a soft click, and then the stamp of heavy footsteps across the linoleum floor of the police station.

“Come on, get up,” he hears a voice say, from directly above him. “We’re going home.”

Once more, Ryou looks up. His father is standing there, his face deceptively blank as he extends a hand in his direction.

“ _Now_ ,” he says coldly.

Letting go of his knees, Ryou takes the hand, and allows himself to be pulled.

They spend the beginning of the car ride home in tense, awkward silence. Ryou’s still trembling; he’s too young to sit in the front seat, but his father had ushered him in anyway, slamming the door shut behind him before he could protest, not that he had intended to anyway.

His father’s hands grip the wheel so tightly they’re white.

“You didn’t tell the policeman what went down, did you, Ryou,” he says, his voice so flat it’s not even a question.

Ryou’s breath hitches. “I did,” he mumbles, turning his head to look out the window.

Lips pursed, his father seems as if he’s about to say something before he slams his foot on the brake, stopping the car so abruptly Ryou shoots forward, straining against the belt. Panic swells in his lungs—he looks out to the windshield, worrying his bottom lip when he sees the blinking red light in front of them.

“What _really_ happened,” his father says, when they start moving again. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

His teeth sink down, digging into the tender flesh so hard he draws blood. “No,” he admits, his eyes darting to his father’s stony face. “But I—”

“Good,” his father interrupts, swerving as they turn a sharp corner. The car is speeding up—the roads are still slick with rain, and the winding country roads stretch out in front of them. Ryou’s heart feels like it might be about to burst with worry, if he weren’t so dazed. “You can’t. You know that, right?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, too winded to be surprised. “But—”

“That thing belongs to you,” his father continues, cutting him off again. “You belong to _it._ There’s nothing I can do; nothing anyone can do. Don’t you understand what that means?”

Ryou’s getting really tired of adults telling him that.

“We’re moving,” his father says after a moment, before he can reply. “Out of town, somewhere closer to the museum. You need to transfer schools—we can’t stay here like this.”

Protesting would be pointless. Letting his head droop into a nod, Ryou slumps down, the leather of the seat cool against his heated skin. In his pocket, the dolls he’d managed to scoop up from the table are as heavy as stones.

 _Why are you angry with me?_ he wants to ask, his wide, accusing eyes fixed on the line of his father’s sharp jaw to his right. If he looks at his face, he knows he won’t be able to stop himself from blurting the words out. _Isn’t this_ your _fault?_

His father rounds the corners so sharply, the car skidding with each jerky movement. Ryou thinks, somehow, that he wants them both to crash.

When they arrive at what was once the family home, his father parks the car in the driveway and pushes on the door, letting it slam behind him as he stalks towards the front door.

Ryou sits in the front seat. He feels so young, alone in there, the seatbelt fastening him in like a chokehold. His skin is so thin it’s about to crack.

Small hands shaking, he undoes the belt, pressing on the door handle until it gives way and he tumbles out of the car and onto the gravel. Landing on his hands and knees, he scrapes against the ground so hard he nearly skins them clean.

He barely notices the sting; it hardly hurts at all.

Ryou rises to his feet and starts off towards the front door. In the window, he can see his father’s silhouette as he raises a bottle to his lips. _Silly old man_ , Ryou thinks, and he’s surprised that the voice comes from his own mind this time.

The wooden frame is slightly ajar. He pulls it, and slips inside, heading down the long hallway towards his bedroom at its end. Once he’s inside he pushes the door shut behind him with all his feeble might and stumbles his way to the bed without changing, or turning on the light. 

Numbness finally wearing off, the ache of his body anchors him to the sheets. He feels—sick. His limbs are lead, his mind soup; his head is pounding, the pain a steady hammer against the bone of his skull.

Burying his face in the pillow, Ryou wishes he could just die.

There’s a heaviness in the space between sleep and wakefulness. His eyelids squeeze shut; he sees fireworks as he tries to will sleep upon himself.

Beneath his shirt, the Ring stirs. And in his ear, Ryou hears—the words smooth, like the purring of a satisfied cat—“Goodnight, respectable landlord.”


	3. Union

Ryou doesn’t like Domino City.

His feet are dragging, eyes trained on the dreary stretch of grey sidewalk in front of him, as he walks to the high school’s imposing gates. It’s early—his eyelids are drooping, unkempt hair falling in front of his eyes as it wilts under the morning fog.

It’s a cloudy day; not too cold, but just chilly enough that Ryou wishes he had a thicker jacket. Around his neck, the Ring preens. From its vantage point, resting against the coarse, blue fabric of Ryou’s uniform, it basks under the grey sky. The gold of its rim glints under each stray patch of sun, like it’s winking up at him.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” whispers Ryou, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

The Ring thrums in agreement.

Normally, its cheeky response would make him smile. Today, though, the nerves churning in his stomach are weighing him down too much for him to manage anything but a halfhearted grimace. “At least you’re honest,” he says, giving it a consoling pat.

The path beneath his feet is unchanging in its drab coloring. He should focus on where he’s going—the previous night he’d looked over a map of the area, but now that he’s actually here the path he’d marked out in his mind is indistinct. All the streets of this city look the same to Ryou: their tall, sloping buildings and shiny windows, pavement strewn with litter, chipped street lights keeping watch at each corner.

His lip curls over. The whole thing, in his opinion, is rather disgusting.

When he looks up, the gesture prompted by the approaching curb, Ryou recognizes the sign at the end of the road. He’s been going in the right direction. There’s a throng of students swathed in identical blue uniforms, all heading the same way. They’re walking in pairs of two or three, sometimes even more. Some of them are clearly already friends. As a newcomer, it will inevitably be awkward for him.

 _Domino High School_ , the Ring purrs in his ear, pulling him out of his thoughts. Its lilting voice is so distinct in his head that Ryou almost believes he can really hear it. _You’ll like it there, don’t worry._

Ryou’s lips twitch. “Unlikely,” he murmurs, and walks faster so as not to lose sight of the crowd.

* * *

The inside of the school thankfully isn’t as bad as the outside.

That’s what Ryou thinks, anyways, as he stands just beyond the door to his new classroom. The Ring hasn’t expressed its disapproval yet, at least, which bodes well enough.

 _It’s safe, then_ , his mind—or maybe the Ring; he can hardly tell anymore, these days—affirms. _So let’s get this over with, shall we?_

“Mm,” Ryou agrees, his fingers wrapping around its gold rim and giving it an affectionate squeeze. He lingers there for a moment; the casual touch is calming. Then, reluctantly, he tucks it under his shirt, pressing its skeletal frame to his skin.

As if to reassure him, it gives a hot thrum, sending a warm shiver through his chest. Ryou allows himself to bathe in it for a moment, his nerves quelled by the gentle sensation. Then, swallowing slightly, he steps forward. From inside, the teacher reaches for the handle and pulls it open.

Immediately, he’s met by at least thirty sets of inquisitive eyes, all staring directly at him. _They don’t know,_ he reminds himself, as he walks to the front of the room. His back is straight—despite his nerves, he doesn’t falter for even a moment. He’s done this so many times; he knows how important the first impression is. _They don’t know. They don’t know. They don’t know._

The teacher, oblivious, hands him a piece of chalk. He says something to the class but his voice is indistinct, muddled, as if Ryou had stuck his head in a fishbowl before entering the room. It’s all fuzzy, his surroundings blurring together. His chest clenches; his breathing quickens imperceptibly, his lower lip wobbling a bit.

_They don’t know, right?_

The Ring sends a shock through his fingers.

 _Focus_.

Its voice—does it have a voice, now? Is that what Ryou is hearing, what’s licking against his skin?—is stern, berating. Its expectations for Ryou are higher than Ryou’s expectations for himself. But it’s right. He needs to focus. He's supposed to stay here, this time.

Ryou raises his head from the proverbial water. The teacher is looking at him expectantly, but it hasn’t been long enough since he’d spoken that Ryou’s hesitation is out of the ordinary. It’s obvious from his bright-eyed gaze that he hadn’t been informed of his new student’s peculiar situation beforehand.

He manages a feeble smile, and turns to write his name on the board. The smooth glide of the chalk on the flat surface before him soothes the knot still festering in his stomach. By the time he’s done and he’s turning back around to face the class again, he feels well enough to try again. He hopes the set of his lips is natural enough that it doesn’t look like a lie.

“My name is Bakura Ryou,” he says, softly. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

The Ring, pressed up against his ribs, grins.

* * *

The young-looking boy he meets in the classroom during break, who introduces himself as Mutou Yuugi, has a pendant of his own.

It looks sort of like the Ring—it’s made with the same hollow, gleaming gold, and bears the same eye at its centre.

The Ring punishes this observation the second it arrives in Ryou’s mind, pressing down on his organs until the force of it is almost too painful to bear without yelping. Ryou has practice, though; he maintains his smile and doesn’t react, and the Ring retreats with begrudging respect.

Ryou reaches out to touch it. He can feel the Ring’s jealousy, but also its satisfaction; it relishes in his curiosity, he can tell. It wants him to want to know. Pulling back, Ryou swallows. Bubbles are rising in his throat—his face is going an awkward sort of red, like he’s suddenly feverish, his hands trembling.

Something is coming.

He mumbles out an excuse, and bolts out of his seat. A gaggle of girls follows him, but Ryou only ignores them, his cheeks warm and heart still squeezing in his ribcage as he pushes open the classroom door and out into the hall.

“ _Hey_ , you!”

The voice comes from a teacher. He’s big and angry-looking, crude features twisted in a sneer. The short, dramatic crop of his hair is pushed up into his forehead by his equally thick eyebrows. Ryou thinks he looks rather like a mushroom.

“So you’re the new guy,” he continues, when Ryou makes no moves to acknowledge his address. “I heard you were a troublemaker at your last school. Y’know, those girls should be scared of you—you oughta be obligated to tell them what you’ve done.”

The Ring shakes against Ryou’s chest, under his shirt, the metal thrumming with a rare sort of energy. It’s indignant; angry with purpose, not in the abstract way it usually is. It wants to act on Ryou’s anger, to exact its revenge on his behalf. It wants to rescue him.

A grin plays at Ryou’s lips. Isn’t this exciting; the thrill of it all, of his pain—his _anger_ —being acknowledged by the Ring? Isn’t this what he’s been waiting for?

The teacher—Karita, he’d heard one of the girls trailing behind him mumble—scowls deeper. His meaty fist lunges for his hair, thick fingers knotting in it, tugging harshly at Ryou’s scalp. The sudden gesture makes him wince in pain.

“Why are you smiling at me,” Karita hisses, disgusted, “you sick fuck, Bakura? You gonna put me in a coma?”

Through half-lidded eyes, Ryou peers up into his square, ugly face. “I don’t know, sensei,” he says honestly. His smile only grows. “I really—”

* * *

After the incident with Karita, the rest of the day passes by rather smoothly. In the end, he finds himself telling Yuugi and the rest of his friends the truth. It’s not a hard decision to make, even though they all seem genuinely nice. They’d made an effort to include him in their plans, in an obvious bid to get to know him better.

If Ryou were a different person, he would probably have appreciated it. Truthfully, as he is now, he doesn’t.

The Ring seems displeased with this decision; magnified by the strange energy it’s accumulated, it tugs him towards Yuugi’s pendant, trying to urge him into following it. But it’s just a Ring—it can’t control his body, nor can it intimidate Ryou into changing his mind with a few ominous shakes.

Ryou resists easily and heads home, instead.

It’s not worth it to appease the Ring and put these people—these people who don’t even know him, who are barely close enough to consider acquaintances—in danger.

When he arrives, he settles into his desk. His notebook is still open on the desk from where he’d left it the night before, writing out directions. Ripping a page out, he shoves it back into the drawer, pulling out a pen from its ringed binding.

Dear Amane, he begins.

_The girl looks up at it._

_Her hair is plastered to her forehead; her cheeks are red, like shiny apples, alight with the artificial glow of some childish artist’s paintbrush. She’s smiling so wide her thin skin is stretching and cracking, flakes of it falling off and onto the floor._

_Then again, she’s always smiling, always peeling._

_“He’s writing again,” she says casually, nudging the monster. “Don’t you think it’s sweet he still does that? Huh?”_

_It doesn’t respond. It has better things to do._

_She frowns, irritated. Her moods, like its own, are fleeting. “You know, it’s rude to ignore a lady,” she insists. “I asked you if you think it’s sweet.”_

_It pauses. “Sweet?”_

_Then, it laughs._

The sound comes suddenly. Ryou sets the pen down, swallowing. The Ring is completely still against his chest.

“That voice again,” he mumbles, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His stomach is wrought with anticipation, his fingers trembling. “I wonder…”

The sound comes through clearly this time. It’s a laugh—a sharp, bark of a laugh. It’s so familiar it aches. “ _Oh,_ so you can finally hear me?”

Ryou sucks in a shaky breath. “Who’s there?” he demands, tentatively, his eyes darting around the room to search for the source.

The words are heavy cotton in his mouth; awkward, nervous, lame. He feels like he’s nine years old, stumbling across a long, dark room, except his legs are frozen in place.

Of course he knows who it is—how could Ryou not, after all this time?

“The time has finally come that I can communicate with my master,” the Ring gloats, its— _his_ , Ryou realizes, because the Ring’s voice has the distinctive timbre of a man—words laden with arrogance. Ryou can feel his hot breath against the back of his neck, even though he knows no one’s standing there. The sensation makes him shiver with pleasure. “Today is a glorious day!”

_Your … master?_

“This should be celebrated,” the Ring chuckles again. “Finally, after three thousand long years! Maybe it’s because of _him_ that we can at last hear each other…”

Faintly, Ryou can’t help but feel that this is all wrong. This isn't _his_ Ring, is it? His friend— _Ryou’s_ friend, who’s been with him for the past seven years; who’s stayed by his side through everything; who’s protected him. His throat sours.

_Master …_

“We’re connected forever, through the Millennium Ring,” the Ring says. “And thanks to you, I’ve finally found the keeper of the Millennium Puzzle after all this time…”

But the Ring is here for him, isn’t it?

“You already knew that, though,” the Ring continues. Ryou knows he can hear everything going through his head. “Didn’t you?”

Ryou’s face burns with indignation. He’s—betrayed, he thinks. He feels tired all of a sudden; the Ring, still wrapped around his neck, feels too tight, like it’s choking him, and yet there’s an emptiness to it.

The distance between them has never been larger.

“Go away,” he says, not louder than a whisper. “Get _out_ of my head.”

The Ring, as he always does, understands what Ryou needs. His spokes throb as they bury themselves under his skin—have they always been there, sinking their claws into him? Was that the goal all along? The rough penetration feels good—it reassures him, envelops him in warmth. Ryou hates himself for it.

“But it feels so good in here, respectable landlord,” the Ring purrs. “Inside you.”

Ryou swallows, woozy. “Why now,” he says. “When you’ve been with me all this time?”

“I serve my master,” the Ring replies, vaguely. “And you’ve been insulted, haven’t you? I have to pay my collateral. Don’t tell me you didn’t realize—how I’ve been granting your wishes. Protecting you.”

The thought of Ren’s dimpled smile makes him wince. “Stop,” he whispers. “You’re hurting me.”

“Go to sleep,” the Ring says in lieu of response. “You should get some rest, landlord.”

Ryou closes his eyes.

* * *

When he wakes up, the Ring’s spirit is there, leering down at him. 

Somehow, he’s not surprised that it looks exactly like him.


End file.
